


so darkness i became

by Lost Soul Here (naterkins)



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: ACCEPT THE DARKNESS WITHIN YOU ALINA THE DARKLING ALREADY HAS, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Speculation, like calls to like i will never look away etc., seriously i just want alina to rule ravka by the darkling's side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naterkins/pseuds/Lost%20Soul%20Here
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has always been his, just as he will always be hers. He has made her his Ilya Morozova, forgotten Saint but immortalized Grisha, savior and ruler of Ravka. She is not a pawn but a queen, and she has long since embraced the darkness within her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so darkness i became

**Author's Note:**

> omg don’t laugh at the title but florence’s “cosmic love” is literally the perfect song for darklina/alarkling i’m not even s o r r y.
> 
> i get a lot of marya morevna/koschei from deathless vibes from these two. couples ruling their people and the darkness in their hearts give it to meeeeee. also i used the concept of “you only punish someone you love” from deathless because it applies so perfectly to the implied dom/sub relationship between alina and the darkling (do not deny its existence), so giving credit where credit is due.
> 
> this doesn't flow like a typical narrative because i think that if she lived for so long, time wouldn't work the same way.
> 
> partly dedicated to caroline and miccaeli. thanks for your alina/the darkling discussions and headcanons that a) tore my soul apart and b) inspired a lot of this fic WHOO

It isn’t until the end of their first century ruling Ravka that she realizes the people have forgotten her name.

When she had been just a girl, a Grisha with powers she could hardly understand, the streets were bursting with cries and chants of _Sankta Alina_ and _Daughter of Ravka_. The pilgrims called her name as she passed by, though they could not see her face (nor her young shame) through her gilded carriage.

But the people have long memorialized Sankta Alina into the martyr who died trying to destroy the Shadow Fold, and the next Darkling has swept back into Ravka as nothing short of a king, with the second Sun Summoner in all history as his consort.

(They had agreed to keep up the story of the Black Heretic’s descendants, and so the _Istorii Sankt’ya_ says that Sankta Alina vanquished the Darkling in the blackness of the Unsea.)

The Darkling assures her that the most magnificent of legends go by their titles, their true names lost in the throats of the dying—after all, no one knows the name his mother had given him (save her, his Sun Summoner, who knows him better than she knows herself). She nods and smothers the prick of pain from losing her name, as she has become so practiced in doing.

 

—

They feed off each other, she thinks, surfacing from a week of nothing but his hands and lips on her skin. They sate their hunger for _merzost_ with each other. But times come often enough that when one succumbs to the magic, to the abomination, the other siphons the effects away.

(No one must know about _merzost_. The people think it was destroyed along with the previous Darkling, and so they encourage the wives’ tale and continue on.)

 

—

They move in perfect tandem, the Darkling and the Sun Summoner, not halves of a whole but hands of a timepiece. Their footsteps whisper across the Grand Palace’s carpet runners in unison, heads held high but eyes straight forward.

(“We are above them,” he had once said, lips against her throat in the heady night, “eternal, everlasting. But they must not know that. To them we are their rulers, their saviors. We must look _at_ them, not through them.”

She had simply blinked in agreement, hands in his hair and against his back. “I am learning, love. Have faith in me.”

He had stopped at that, lifting himself above her until she could see only the gray storm of his eyes, the darkness that he never restrained around her. “I have nothing but faith in you, Alina,” and she had exhaled at the name she tried so hard to forget.

His fingers had brushed the bones around her neck and she melted into his kiss, moving forward as they have always done.)

 

—

Sometimes when she looks in the mirror (nearly transparent white skin, eyes wide as windows, hair darker than the only children she would ever have), she remembers the foolish Tailor from another lifetime, who had spent years studying perfection, only to lose it when she doubted herself.

The Sun Summoner must always be certain.

 

—

He dropped his pretense of youth before they even returned to Ravka. He is not the next young Darkling around her, but the Black Heretic, the ancient creature who carved a chasm into their country for the sake of power, and so she is not surprised when he reminds her of such.

“I have lived longer than you,” he says one night (because that is what is theirs—the nights), “but there was a time when I wanted to do the same. I understand your desire to help the people.” He pauses and waits for her to nod. (He always wants her to understand him: she has never been his lesser, only his equal.)

“But it is not what is best for them, for Ravka. You must pass them by and move forward.”

(Even when she is on top of him, his eyes blaze into hers in a way that reminds her that she is never her own, just as he will never belong fully to himself.

She has long accepted that he punishes her only because he loves her, and when he pushes her to the point between pain and pleasure, she does not cry out his name, the one she holds somewhere in the cavern of her heart. Instead she exhales into his shoulder, her breath the only thing that has escaped her grasp in far too long.)

 

—

The funny thing about time, she realizes, is that one never fully understands it until one has too much of it.

(Her memories are marked not by people she has spoken with or decrees she has passed or even the moon’s path across the sky. She measures everything by the darkness in her heart, the desire to call the _nichevo’ya_ , their children.)

Eternity seems to drag on at times, and it flits by when she least expects it.

But today, time goes on as it usually does.

They are up on the platform in the throne room, posture perfect and eyes cool. The _oprichniki_ are standing behind and beside them as usual, more for show than true protection. (The Darkling and the Sun Summoner are fully capable of protecting themselves and each other, neither afraid of using something far more deadly that the Cut.)

A Heartrender stands before the platform. He looks calm, though she suspects that he may be controlling his heart rate to appear as such. Her suspicions are confirmed when he speaks.

“ _Moi—moi soverenyi_ ,” he stammers out, bowing low and speaking to the ground, though his eyes watch them warily. “You summoned me. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The Darkling starts to speak but stops when her fingers curl over his. A moment passes between them, and his eyes flash as he yields the floor to her.

“Heartrender, you misunderstand,” she says. Her eyes, an enigma in themselves, pass over him as he visibly relaxes. _The trap is set._ “The pleasure is mine.”

She can guess the thoughts running through his mind, weak as it is. He hopes for a promotion, perhaps to representative of the Corporalki for the system she created—Sankta _Alina_ created so many years ago.

“We observe all practicers of the Small Science,” she continues, “but you have caught our interest.” The Heartrender is completely at ease now, a smug smile on his thin face. He even dares to flick his gaze over her body, and the Darkling instinctively tenses beside her. She nearly laughs at the foolish _boy_ before her, instead curling her lips into a sensuous smile.

(Between Sankta Alina’s death and the return of the Sun Summoner, the Darkling taught her that summoning light is not her only power. With the increased use of her abilities and a lifetime’s worth of education from the Darkling, a young Alina became a woman with radiant white skin and shining blue-gray eyes, fully equipped to use every weapon at her disposal.)

She stands from the throne she shares with the Darkling, linking her hands behind her back. She twists her wrist between her fingers, a signal they have used for years, and the Darkling nearly relaxes behind her before he remembers to keep his jealous façade.

She strides to the Heartrender in front of her, his smile now a cross between a grin and a leer as he clearly eyes her with something like desire—for her body or status, she does not know or care.

“Heartrender—”

“Viktor,” he interjects. She pauses, considering her options. She has stopped caring for names, and she dislikes that he presumes she would care about his. She could destroy him right there, but it’s been so long since she’s played with someone like this. It is a testament to the fear and respect instilled in the people of Ravka that he looks down, contrite. She steps right up to him and lifts up his chin with long fingers, though she does not release him.

“Do you know what Sun Summoners can do, Heartrender?” she asks quietly. He nods, and her hand travels along his jaw to his neck. He has lost control of his heart, and his pulse flutters beneath his skin.

“They can summon light, _moi soverenyi_ ,” he replies carelessly, far too preoccupied with their proximity. The hand behind her back curls into a fist. She cannot lose her temper—one of the few remnants Alina left behind—not now.

“Yes, but what else can they do?” she says, her tone annoyed. Panic flashes in his dull-looking eyes.

The Heartrender gulps, unnerved by the hand curled around the nape of his neck and the unreadable look on her face. “I—I do not know. You are but the second in Grisha history.” His pulse jumps against her fingers.

_Caught him._

“You are lying,” she says smoothly. She takes another step forward, pressing their bodies together. Her lip nearly curls at the contrast between her singular golden _kefta_ and the common crimson with black embroidery of his.

She softens her eyes and lips, looking up at him almost admiringly. “Do not be afraid,” she whispers. “You are so clever to have figured it out. I want only to know how you have done so.” She rests her other hand against his chest, fingering the Materealki-made fabric.

“I will tell you, _moi soverenyi_ ,” he says eagerly, clasping her waist between his too-large hands. “It was quite easy, once I learned what I was looking for. There is a book about Sankta Alina, about how she was the first Sun Summoner before she was a Saint, and there is an illustration of her in the pages.”

The Heartrender pauses, daring to brush his callused fingers against her cheek. “She was so beautiful, her hair darker than Shadow Fold and skin whiter than the amplifier around her neck.” His fingers trail down to Morozova’s collar, and she nearly hisses at him. How dare he touch the greatest gift she has been given! She grasps at those fingers, holding them between them.

He looks into her eyes. “And I knew. There is only one woman who could match her beauty, let alone surpass it. The queen of Ravka, the Sun Summoner.”

A blindingly white grin splits her face, and her hands move to hold his shoulders. “Marvelous,” she lies. “How truly brilliant you must be to learn my secret. Of course, you must never tell.”

He nods vigorously. “Of course, of course, _moi soverenyi_. Never, not as long as I shall live.”

The throne room is empty but for her, the Darkling, this Heartrender, and the ever-present _oprichniki_. There is no better time. Her eyes flash dangerously and her hands tighten on his shoulders before she steps back. His clumsy hands fall from her, and he looks confused.

“I assure you, that will not be long,” she says. The space between them feels like an enormous chasm, but the power boiling beneath her skin assures her she can cross it before he can blink.

“ _Moi soverenyi?_ ” he asks, his skin paling. She turns and nods to an _oprichnik_ , who lifts a hand. The Heartrender crumples to the floor, his heart in the _oprichnik_ Heartrender’s hold.

“He will not kill you, Heartrender,” she says, driving her gaze into his. “You will tell me where this book is, and then he will release you.” It is not a lie.

“It—I have it in my room, open on—on my dresser,” he gasps out, hands clawing to counter the force around his heart. “Please, _moi soverenyi_ , I have told no one and I promise I will not. Please, please let me go!” She closes her eyes, relishing his strangled begging, familiar yet thrilling.

The Darkling murmurs an order to three _oprichniki_ , who leave the room. They return minutes later, one of them carrying an ancient-looking book. The one with the book presents it to her with a quiet “ _moi soverenyi_ ,” and they retreat.

She steps to the Heartrender’s side, towering above him. “Is this the book with the illumination of Sankta Alina?” she asks, showing him the cover.

“Yes, yes, _moi—moi soverenyi!_ ” he manages to say. “I—I have bookmarked page with the—the illustration.”

She flips the book open to where a ribbon has been stuck between two pages, and her mouth nearly falls open. There is a faded but recognizable illustration of Sankta Alina next to a page about her efforts to the destroy the Unsea. She snaps the book closed and throws it to the floor next to the Heartrender’s head.

“This is all you have found, then?” she demands. He nods jerkily, his hands scrabbling at the glossy floor.

She narrows her eyes. “You are certain? I will know if you are lying.” He nods again, and she waves her hand at the _oprichnik_. The Heartrender on the floor relaxes and rises slowly.

She turns from him. “Would you like a demonstration of a Sun Summoner’s abilities?” she asks abruptly. She can hear him stammering behind her.

“I have—I have seen demonstrations before, _moi soverenyi_ ,” he says, and she sighs, almost missing the arrogance he’d had earlier. She looks over her shoulder, a mysterious smile on her lips.

“You have not seen them all.”

She lifts her hands up, brilliant beams of light pouring out from her fingers toward the domed ceiling. The light illuminates the room, and the Heartrender shields his eyes with a shaking hand. She turns fully towards him, and the light curls around him.

The room is becoming much too warm, but she does not flush or perspire. The Heartrender, on the other hand, gulps as his forehead breaks out in a clammy sweat.

“What do you think?” she asks as her light wraps around him, the heat close to searing his skin beneath his .

“It is very lovely,” he says warily. He is afraid, she thinks, and for some reason, this upsets her. She brushes the feeling away and approaches the Heartrender once more.

“Do you know what I learned before I returned to Ravka, Heartrender?” she says, voice deceptively calm. She does not allow him to reply before her light grips him tightly, and he falls to his knees before the light almost completely cocoons him. Only his face can be seen, and it is filled with the abject terror she has been looking for.

She crouches beside him. “I learned that light is not always good,” she whispers, and he does not even have the time to scream before the creeping strands of light force their way into his mouth, filling his body until his skin takes on an unnatural glow.

 

—

They lay together on the bed, gasping for breath. Unofficial executions have always left them with an insatiable hunger for each other. It might have been seconds or minutes or hours before the Darkling speaks.

“You almost got carried away today,” he says to her back. He loops his arm around her waist, and their skin is almost too white against the black of his sheets. He presses his lips to her hair, and she turns to face him.

“Am I supposed to apologize?” she asks bluntly. He chuckles, and she scowls at him.

“Of course not,” he replies with a scoff, and she smiles, more for herself than him.

She drapes a leg over his hips and rolls them so that she is straddling him. “Do you want me to stop, _moi soverenyi?_ ” she says, smirking at the double meaning of her words and supporting herself with her hands flat against the planes of his chest. She tucks her knees against his ribs as she leans down, her soft, black hair curtaining his face until the only thing she can see in the darkness is his shining gray eyes, reeling her in as they always have.

His groan rumbles through his chest. “Of course not,” he repeats, and in a flash they’ve flipped positions. He has her wrists pinned above her head in one hand, and the sea whip’s fetter digs into his palm. He hooks the fingers of his other hand around Morozova’s collar, and she moans, a soft sound in the back of her throat. He kisses her neck with enough force to leave bruises that she will never hide.

“Never apologize for who you are, for the power you wield,” he growls fiercely, teeth bearing down against her skin. His hand clutches at her waist almost desperately— _desperation is not a weakness we can afford_ , she reminds herself—and his skin is a comforting burn against hers.

She can do nothing but nod in agreement, for she has become a slave to the darkness he offered her so long ago.


End file.
